Sing a Song of Roses
by The Writerholic
Summary: Trapped by the Royal Apothecary Society, Dr. Andrea Rosemont must work to find a cure to save herself from the Plague of Undeath.  However, is she working to find a cure?  Or helping the Society create a worse plague than the one that destroyed Lordaeron?
1. Chapter 1

**Sing a Song of Roses**

**:: One ::**

The Shadow Grave was cold. The very air itself chilled and fetid with the lingering sorrows of undeath. Cadavers, shriveled husks of their once-living bodies, lay strewn in haphazard fashion, like discarded dolls. In one corner, closest to a guttering, smoke-belching torch, the ragged form of a Forsaken sat cross-legged, facing the wall.

She rocked forward and back, her arms wrapped tightly around a small bundle in her lap. Her voice, was high-pitched and lilting as it sang in a hoarse whisper to itself:

"Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb...

Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow.

Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went...

Everywhere that Mary went, that lamb was sure to go."

She used her right hand to stroke the bundle in her lap, softly crooning to it in a comforting fashion, "There, there," she said aloud, "It's okay now, Tarty..."

The ocherous gaze of the imp looked up at her as it lay still in her lap. It accepted her petting, even sat compliant as she pulled it against her bony chest in a hug. "You're my best friend and I won't let anybody hurt you, okay?" She whispered.

_It is often said that we can become prisoners of our dreams; so ensorcelled by them that we begin to lose cognizance of what is Real and what is Not. If we can be prisoners of our dreams, can we then, by supposition, also be prisoners of our nightmares?_

_I cannot begin to analyze what has happened. Every time I try, a pressure builds until I feel as if the very fiber of my being might implode. All I have left are my memories, but even these, when I examine them closely, bring me nothing but dread. And rage._

_My life was devoted to my science; to the elaborate intricacies of apothecary. My world, my very being was the essence of meticulous control, of units of measure. Of patience. Of diligence._

_I was on the brink of discovering a cure to the plague that devoured my beloved Lordaeron! Until the day the Hooded Man came to my door. I'll never forget the smell of death that surrounded him, or the way his sickly yellow eyes seemed to gaze to the very depths of my soul._

_"The Royal Apothecary Society has need of you," I remember him saying. Then, everything was blackness...and then bright pink. Pink like crystal glass. From within this glass, I could see the world, feel it, but this part of me... my logic, my reason, my science, seemed a thousand miles away._

_All it left behind was this child-like remnant of who I am. The fel-bound imp, Tartik, watches me carefully and uses his power to keep me in check should I attempt to struggle. Am I dead? No. Dying? No._

_I am forced to live a nightmare where I have no control, merely a silent observer to this un-life in which I find myself imprisoned. To what end? For what purpose? I am sure I will discover the answer to these questions and more, whenever my captors allow it._

_My name is Doctor Andrea Rosemont. I cannot forget. I must not forget. Else I am lost._


	2. Chapter 2

**:: Two ::**

"You're big. You came out of my closet, didn't you? I always knew there were monsters in my closet, but nobody believed me!" Azphel said, looking up at the misty blue bulk of the voidwalker as it floated before her. Throkgak was, in fact, fairly average-sized for his kind, but to someone of Azphel's child-like mentality, he most likely seemed quite monstrous. The Forsaken sat heavily on the ground, sulking up at the voidwalker as it prevented her from leaving the stinky room filled with bubbling flasks, cauldrons, and weird, spirally tubes.

In the corners of the room, a few apprentices worked, preparing various herbs and substances for later use. One was even a big cow! Complete with horns. It was onto this hulking form that Azphel latched onto, in an effort to keep up her facade of courage. Something funny, yet familiar amidst a room of chaos, scary things, and death.

In her lap, she clutched Tartik tightly, all while whispering, "Don't be afraid, I'm here," into the imp's pointed ear. "Wherever here is." 

_Apothecary's Log_

_Plague Cure: Batch #00176_

_Clinical Trials: Day 17_

_Subject: Forsaken, Female_

_Est. Age of Death: 25_

_Est. Age of Undeath: 30_

_Dosage Administered: 25cc of Batch #00176_

_Findings: The subject appears to have regenerated some of the skin tissue lost during the transformation to Undeath. However, muscle and blood systems continue to be unresponsive to treatment. Bone marrow shows no signs of having procured the serum via the bloodstream._

_Conclusion: Include Bone Dust in Batch #00176-B and attempt bone marrow transfusion. Perhaps we need to work from the inside out._

_Personal Note: They've assigned me a Tauren to be my assistant. A Tauren, for Light's sake! I can only pray that as a druid, he's been taught decent herb-lore. I don't have time to waste on training a novice._

_I should be nice to him, though. He may be the only living thing I get to talk to for a while._

_His name is Kontar._

_~ Dr. Andrea Rosemont_


End file.
